


Touch

by Mysecretfanmoments



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, canonverse, hints of Kuroo liking Kenma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:50:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4733345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysecretfanmoments/pseuds/Mysecretfanmoments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a twisted ankle and an uncomfortable realization, Yaku starts to see a different side of Lev—one he doesn't want to kick at all. (Or, well... not often.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bananasloth (vanda99)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bananasloth+%28vanda99%29).



> I just want to thank Adél so, SO much for giving me the opportunity to write this and for all the fun we've had yelling at each other along the way. Thank you for being my test case and thank you for throwing me into a pit of yakulev feelings. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Yaku is used to the sound of soles squeaking against parquet floors, and he’s used to the sound of people falling for dives, and the quality of the sound is different from a regular fall—firmer, somehow. When he hears a fall—not the _right_ sort of fall—his attention snaps to the source of it, finding Lev flat and whining. Someone lets out a bark of laughter, quickly stifled, and Yaku rushes over.

“Are you all right?” he asks, kneeling down beside Lev.

Lev examines himself for a moment. There’s a scrape on his knee—he still doesn’t wear knee pads—but other than that he looks fine. He stands shakily, and Yaku stands too.

“I think so!” Lev says. His voice is cheerful, but it wobbles a bit when he takes a step.

“Are you sure?” Yaku asks. “You could take the rest of practice off, make sure you’re not hurt.”

“I’m fine, Yaku-san!”

Someone nearby sighs with relief—Kuroo.

“What?” Yaku asks, turning to look at him.

“No!” Kuroo says, holding up his hands. “I, uh, nothing!”

“He’s the one who laughed,” Kenma says quietly, squeezing a volleyball between his hands. Kuroo looks betrayed.

“I’m sorry!” Kuroo says. “It’s just—first instinct. It looks funny when people fall! There’s TV shows about it!”

He looks at the rest of the team, who all plaster looks of disappointment on their faces—many of which are on the verge of twitching into laughter. “Guys!” Kuroo says, face pleading, and Kenma ruins it: a tiny hiccup of laughter escapes him, shoulders rising.

Yaku looks away from the clear adoration that blooms in Kuroo’s face, feeling like he’s intruding.

“Back to practice!” Kai calls, rubbing a hand over his shaved head. He’s always a little more vice-captainly when it’s spiking practice—his favorite. They go back to their positions and play, but Yaku keeps an eye on Lev, noting the occasional awkward movement. He bites his lip. The team already teases Yaku about being like a parent to them, and he doesn’t want to be overbearing—but isn’t Lev favoring that foot?

Yaku’s suspicions are confirmed not much later. Lev lands oddly after a jump and falls sideways, slamming the floor gracelessly. This time there’s no laughter, because they all heard the mewl of pain. Yaku rushes forward again.

“I asked if you were okay!” he scolds, running over to Lev. “What hurts?”

“Ankle,” Lev says, and Yaku looks up at Inuoka.

“Run down to the nurse’s office and get some ice and ibuprofen. You know where it is?”

Inuoka nods and runs off. Kuroo helps Yaku get Lev to a bench at the side of the hall, then stands back with the others.

“Go back to practice,” Yaku tells them all. “I’ll take care of this.”

They do as he says. Lev looks totally miserable as he watches them go, a touch of betrayal in his gaze.

“You’ll be fine,” Yaku says, pulling Lev’s foot into his lap. Lev whimpers. “I didn’t hear a crack. It’s probably just twisted.”

“How bad is that?” Lev asks in a tiny little voice Yaku isn’t used to.

“You’ll be out of commission for a week, maybe,” Yaku says. A part of him wants to soften the blow, but this is Lev’s stupid fault for continuing when he was hurt, and maybe a little bit his own fault for not making Lev stop. The ankle is already swelling.

“That’s too long,” Lev says. Yaku hasn’t ever seen him look quite this sulky before, though his expressions in receiving practice come close sometimes.

“You’ll survive,” Yaku says, and at that point Inuoka runs back into the gym with a bag of ice in hand. They get Lev to take his shoe off and put the ice in place, then feed him the pills. Lev leans against the wall dejectedly, his long leg stretched out on the bench, no longer in Yaku’s lap.

“Just sit for a bit,” Yaku says. “This’ll help with the swelling. You’ll heal faster.”

Lev looks up at him, and Yaku feels a strange jolt of something at the pleading look in his eyes. “You’re not staying?”

Yaku blinks. What does Lev expect from him? Coddling? “ _I_ didn’t hurt my ankle,” he says, staring hard. Lev flinches, and Yaku wonders if he said something wrong—but no. Lev is just being childish, wanting to be cooed over.

Yaku isn’t particularly good at cooing, but twenty minutes later finds him checking up on Lev again. He _is_ a giant child, after all—best not to leave him unattended for too long.

“Are you still sulking?” Yaku asks. He takes the ice off the ankle, wondering if binding it might be a good idea.

“It’s not sulking,” Lev says in a mopey voice. Yaku feels a tickle of amusement in his belly.

“Of course it isn’t,” he says. “Don’t worry. People sprain their ankles all the time. You’ll just have to be gentle with it.”

Lev glares out at the court, not acknowledging Yaku’s words.

“And _next time_ ,” Yaku says. “You’ll know better than to play on a sore ankle. How are you going to be the ace if—”

“Don’t mock me!” Lev says, his green eyes suddenly laser-focused on Yaku. They glimmer slightly, and with horror Yaku realizes Lev is close to tears. That’s not—he hadn’t—

“I know I shouldn’t have played,” Lev says. His shoulders bend forward. “But don’t make fun of me.”

Yaku stares, aware of an empty feeling in his chest and stomach—like all his guts have dropped out in surprise. He really hasn’t seen Lev like this. He’s seen Lev run the gamut of emotions, but always in an exuberant way—when he’s sad, he’s two meters of Russian-tinted moping. He drapes his body on furniture and teammates and whines like it’s his duty. He doesn’t let his shoulders curve inward, doesn’t become small and sad and serious in the way other people can be sad.

Yaku stands uselessly, hands at his sides, staring. _Say something_ , he thinks. _Apologize._

He’s never apologized to Lev—but he’s never had to before.

“I’m sorry,” he says. All teasing is gone from his voice—from his body. “I didn’t realize how upset you were.”

Lev hunches harder, which is difficult to watch. “I’m going to miss so much practice time. And it’s not long until the preliminaries…”

Yaku looks at him consideringly. Given his lack of dedication in receiving practice, it was easy to peg Lev as someone who only cared about the flashy, fun stuff in volleyball—but perhaps it’s unfair to hold his excitable nature against him. The will to improve is there at base level, after all.

“Practice isn’t the only way to practice,” Yaku says, thinking how stupid that sounds—but Lev looks up with new hope in his eyes. “You could study some videos, read up on techniques… it won’t be the same as practicing with the team, but you’re sure to learn something.”

For a moment he thinks Lev will refuse. Lev’s mouth puckers with distaste, his eyes narrowing for a moment—but then he nods. “If you think it’ll help, Yaku-san.”

“Great,” Yaku says, surprised at how relieved he is. “I’ll—I’ll prepare a lesson for you. For tomorrow.”

At that, Lev looks slightly happier—and the guilt at having nearly made him cry releases… a little.

 

* * *

 

If he’d known what that promise of a lesson would lead to, he might have thought twice about offering. It’s not that Lev is ungrateful—on the contrary, he manages an enthusiasm for the lessons he’s never quite shown in receiving practice—but he also demands more of Yaku’s attention than Yaku is willing to give.

Except that Yaku _does_ find himself giving it.

“It’s just hard to pay attention,” Lev complains about the book Yaku gave him to read. “I read it, but nothing sinks in. If you read it to me I’m sure I’d remember better.”

“I’m not narrating a book on volleyball tactics for you,” Yaku says—except that he _does_ end up narrating the book, or at least the first few chapters. He records them at night and gives them to Lev the next day, who listens to them on his headphones. Yaku nearly gets hit in the head with a volleyball because the sight of Lev sitting still and intent makes it impossible to concentrate on the game. He dodges at the last minute.

“Since when do liberos dodge?” Kuroo calls. “That’s the _opposite_ of what you’re meant to be doing.”

“I’m not receiving balls with my face,” Yaku says, annoyance clipping his words—and then, as the team bursts out laughing, he hears how stupid it sounds. He groans.

On the sidelines, Lev looks interested in what’s going on; he looks over at Yaku curiously, the headphones still on, and Yaku gives him a _get back to work_ look.

To Yaku’s surprise, he does.

 

* * *

 

 

The ankle heals. Before long, Lev is back to being an almost-two-meter terror, his excitement after his recovery enough to make up for all the time he spent sitting out. By all rights, the obnoxious enthusiasm should slide Yaku’s relationship with him back into familiar territory—but it doesn’t. Something has changed, and Yaku can’t quite put his finger on what.

“Are you still recording audio clips for him?” Kuroo asks when he sees Yaku pull out a battered book on volleyball plays; Yaku feels curiously defensive about being asked.

“Lev’s an auditory learner,” he says, shrugging as if it makes sense for him to devote large amounts of time to Lev’s growth. It _does_ make sense, to a point, but he’s a third year in a college preparatory class squeezing academics in around endless club activities and practice. He has no free time, not really, and Kuroo is probably the one who understands that best. Kai—in a low-number class despite his sharp intellect—frequently makes fun of them for it.

“Yeah, but—he got better, didn’t he?” Kuroo asks.

“He asked if I’d keep recording them,” Yaku says. His stomach squirms. It’s weird, isn’t it? It’s weird to continue helping Lev, but he’s not sure he wants to stop. He likes the introspective look Lev gets while he’s listening to his headphones, learning about plays. Yaku has seen him around the school with them on.

Kuroo leans back. A slow smile spreads across his face. “I get it.”

“You do?” Yaku asks. _He_ doesn’t get it, but the thought of Kuroo getting it makes panic bubble in his throat for some reason.

“He’s your legacy,” Kuroo says sagely, nodding to himself. “Kenma is mine, of course.”

Yaku snorts; the way Kuroo feels about Kenma has very little to do with leaving a legacy at Nekoma. “That’s what you’re telling yourself?”

The playacting drops from Kuroo’s face. “Hey.”

Yaku flashes back to the moment when he’d made fun of an upset Lev. Why does this keep happening? “Didn’t mean that,” he says. “Kenma holds the team together.”

Kuroo sighs. “You did mean it, you just didn’t think I’d be upset.”

“Yes,” Yaku says. “I’m sorry.”

Kuroo slumps across Yaku’s desk, obscuring his book. “We’re graduating this year,” he says.

“We sure are,” Yaku agrees. He wonders if he should pat Kuroo’s shoulder or something.

“It’s not the end of the world,” Kuroo continues.

“It sure isn’t.”

“We’ve built a good team, haven’t we?” Kuroo says, rising to look at Yaku. “Us and Kai. And they’ll still be strong after we leave.”

“They better be,” Yaku says, gesturing at the book Kuroo’s laying on. “I’m on chapter thirteen. _Coordinated attacks_.”

Kuroo laughs, and just like that the intensity in his gaze is gone as if it was a joke in the first place—as if he was just pretending to care. Yaku knows that’s not the case; Kuroo feels the pressure to succeed more than anyone. He doesn’t know if it’s the captaincy or Kuroo’s personal admiration for their coach, but whatever’s driving him is effective—maybe too effective. 

Then again, Kuroo’s not the one reading volleyball texts aloud every night; maybe they’re both a bit too driven when it comes down to it—but he prefers not to examine his motivation too closely.

 

* * *

 

 

“Yaku-san!”

Yaku pauses on his way out the school gate, turning to see Lev running towards him, his jersey wound around his waist. There’s a bright look in his green eyes and his face is flushed; Yaku smells trouble on the fall breeze.

“I don’t have the next chapter ready,” Yaku tells him. “It’s almost exam time. _You_ shouldn’t be spending your time on volleyball, either. It may not seem like you need good grades now, but—”

“Oh, no, that’s fine!” Lev has drawn up beside him, still with that barely-contained energy written in every line of his posture. “This is about something else.”

“Oh?” Yaku says, beginning to walk. Lev falls into step beside him.

“It’s for after exams,” Lev says. He adjusts his stride to keep up, looking at Yaku’s legs in confusion. “You walk fast, Yaku-san!”

“Mm.”

“It’s surprising, because you’d think—”

Yaku glances at Lev sidelong, and Lev shuts up abruptly. Yaku bites back a grin, thinking he’ll have Lev trained one of these days, and then wonders if his reliance on physical punishment is inhumane.

Lev certainly doesn’t _look_ like he’s cowering in fear.

“Anyway!” Lev says. “What I meant to ask was, will you come over to my house?”

Yaku looks at him suspiciously, wondering what Lev will ask of him next. Tutoring?

“Why?” he asks finally, when Lev doesn’t supply any follow-up statement.

Lev mumbles something Yaku can’t make out—something that sounds like _my mouth think you_. Yaku’s eyes stay narrowed in question, and Lev’s shoulders rise defensively.

“My mother wants to thank you,” he says, audibly this time. Yaku’s eyebrows shoot up.

“For?”

“All the help.” Lev fidgets, and the sight of it is strangely endearing; who knew Lev had a shy side? “She wants to make dinner.”

“That’s… nice of her.” Nerves gather in Yaku’s stomach. What is the Haiba household like? Are they all giants like Lev? Surely his Japanese father is normal-sized, at least, but what if he has seven siblings all as tall and energetic as he is? Yaku will be trampled.

“Yes! So will you come?”

“Do you have siblings?” Yaku asks.

“A little sister,” Lev says, grinning. “And an older half-brother, but I never see him.”

“Okay,” Yaku says cautiously. One sister he can handle, even if she turns out to be a giantess.

Lev looks relieved, and Yaku wonders what his mother is like to make even Lev nervous with her requests. He wonders if he should be worried. 

 

* * *

 

 

It turns out that what Yaku should have been worried about is inclement weather; the sky is gunmetal grey when he and Lev leave the gym, and it has been all day—but the heavens open up a few streets away from Lev’s house. They run, but it does them no good whatsoever; by the time they arrive at the Haiba residence—a very modern-looking apartment complex that puts Yaku’s drafty home to shame—they’re soaked to the skin. Thankfully, the physical discomfort of being completely drenched and freezing removes any awkwardness Yaku might have felt at entering the fancy complex.

“It’s this one!” Lev announces, stopping in front of a door. Before he can knock or take out keys there’s a thump against the door, and then it opens from the inside.

A girl peers up at them, blessedly short.

“Out of the way,” Lev says importantly. “Yaku-san and I are soaked.”

She moves back into the entryway without turning, her eyes fixed on Yaku. Yaku doesn’t know whether to take her silence as a good sign or a bad one, but again his discomfort prevails, and he steps into the entryway, mumbling a sorry-for-intruding and starting to remove his shoes.

“Is this the famous Yaku-san?” asks a feminine voice from somewhere inside the house. It’s followed by a gorgeous—tall, tall—woman stepping into view and approaching.

Yaku stares, then shakes himself. He introduces himself with some difficulty.

“Mori-kun,” Lev’s mother says immediately, as if all Lev’s friends get cute nicknames. Though she’s obviously foreign-born, with green eyes and long blond hair, there’s only the slightest trace of an accent. The only reason Yaku has any trouble understanding her is because he’s so floored by her model-like looks.

He’s pretty sure Lev’s mother is a literal model.

“You boys need to change,” she says, eyeing them. “Except…”

She looks at Yaku, then at Lev, then at the little girl, and there’s amusement in her expression; Lev’s sister—so far unnamed—is closest to Yaku in size, though she can’t be older then eight, and her clothes are of the ribbons-and-glitter variety. Lev’s mother casts a sympathetic look at Yaku. “I’m sure Lev has some clothes that don’t fit him anymore. It hasn’t been that long since his growth spurt.”

“It’s still his growth spurt,” Yaku says morosely, and Lev looks pleased—as if it’s a compliment. His mother smiles.

“This way, Yaku-san,” Lev says, leading Yaku past a very modern kitchen, through a spacious living room, and up floaty modern stairs. Yaku resolves never to let Lev visit him at his house; his family’s apartment will look like a peasant house in feudal Japan compared to this science-fiction worthy, designer apartment. In addition to sleek furniture and dark, abstract art on the walls, there are way more windows than necessary, and rain drums against them incessantly. It only increases Yaku’s chill.

The upper floor looks more like an actual house, and Lev’s room turns out to be a totally normal room, carpeted and cluttered. It doesn’t have that sour teenage-boy smell Yaku’s encountered before, and it feels sort of… homey. Yaku feels nerves flit under his skin when he thinks of Lev lazing on that bed under the window or doing homework at that small desk; it feels too intimate to see these things, even though it’s just a room. Lev doesn’t seem cowed by it, though. He digs around for clothes in a wardrobe that’s about three times as big as Yaku’s dresser at home, and Yaku spies a lot of bright fabrics, not just in Nekoma red.

“This should work,” Lev says brightly, throwing Yaku a bright blue leopard-print shirt and black would-be capris. Yaku looks at the ensemble in horror—but he’s a guest here. He can’t complain, and mutely he follows Lev’s directions to the bathroom to towel off and change. The delicious sensation of becoming dry again certainly takes his mind off how stupid he’s about to look in Lev’s clothing.

He pulls the clothes on, marveling at how good they feel against his chilled skin—how not-wet. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he adjusts the shirt and nearly snorts. The bright blue doesn’t look too bad on him, but the shirt is all folds around him, and he has to roll the sleeves up to reveal his hands. The capris fit well enough—as trousers—if he cinches up the built-in belt.

This is absurd. He can’t believe he’s going to let people see him like this.

“Are you okay?” Lev calls through the door, knocking. Yaku opens it immediately, realizing how long he’s been. Lev’s teeth are chattering.

“Sorry,” Yaku says, stepping past Lev. “Get dry, quick.”

Lev doesn’t move to go into the bathroom. Instead he looks Yaku up and down, and all Yaku’s sympathy drains away as Lev’s hand comes up to cover his mouth—his grin, most likely. Yaku whacks him.

“If you laugh, I’m never giving you receiving practice again,” he threatens, eyes narrowed, and Lev manages to sidle into the bathroom without cracking up. Some deep, suppressed part of Yaku is disappointed; he doesn’t exactly _want_ Lev to behave around him, and having him be considerate is just strange.

He stands uncertainly in the hallway while Lev dries and changes, but he doesn’t have to wait long; Lev steps out in a wide-collared, yellow and turquoise-striped shirt and dark jeans. For a moment the sight hits Yaku like a wave crashing over him out of nowhere; Lev looks _good_ in weird colorful clothing, and Yaku’s never seen him in anything but uniforms and workout clothes before—but then Yaku notices Lev’s silvery hair still dripping, plastered to his skull.

“You forgot your head,” Yaku says, gaining a sense of himself. He grabs a towel from inside the bathroom and reaches to towel off Lev’s hair; Lev has to bow. Lev straightens a moment later, his hair vertical in places—but no longer dripping.

“Better,” Yaku announces, and Lev fidgets.

“You could have told me,” he says with a shyness Yaku hasn’t seen before. He just keeps surprising him.

“You could have looked in a mirror,” Yaku says. “Should we go back downstairs?”

“Okay,” Lev says, still subdued.

“What’s your sister’s name?” he asks as he follows Lev down the stairs. He expects something unpronounceable.

“Ayako,” Lev says.

“Huh.”

“I’m named for my mother’s brother, and my sister’s named for my dad’s grandmother. I guess they got one name each.”

_That’s nice_ , Yaku thinks. Getting to pick one of something each—that’s the way a relationship should be, isn’t it?

When they get to the bottom of the stairs Lev is still being strange and introspective—something that doesn’t transfer to the rest of his family. Lev’s mother has to fight to keep a straight face when she sees Yaku, and Ayako bursts into a fit of giggles.

“Are you sure you’re my brother’s upperclassman?” she asks, her eyes crinkled in mirth. Yaku sighs while Lev scolds his sister for being disrespectful—which is surprising in and of itself, Lev being the least respectful underclassman Yaku’s ever encountered.

What on earth is up with Lev today?

The weirdness continues into Lev’s father arriving and dinner, though Lev’s parents manage a steady flow of conversation. Lev’s father is tall too, but not as tall as his wife or son. They eat crushed thanks-for-having-me cakes Yaku brought for dessert, and at the end of the meal Yaku feels like he knows Lev’s family a whole lot better—but not necessarily Lev himself. Lev is different at home. He’s still exuberant when a subject he likes comes up, but he’s not out-of-this-world excited; Yaku isn’t sure what to make of it. He wonders if things will be different now that he’s seen Lev at home—but when he sees Lev at school the next day, Lev is fresh-faced and greeting him with overeager “Yaku-san”s like usual. It steadies Yaku a bit to see him being his usual self.

“What?” Kuroo asks during morning practice, noticing Yaku’s contemplative mood.

“Do you ever think you know what someone’s like, and then it turns out you don’t?”

Kuroo inclines his head. “Did Kenma tell you about his BL games?”

Yaku chokes. “BL—no! Why would he tell me that?”

“Oh,” Kuroo says. “I probably shouldn’t have told you. Who do you mean?”

“I guess it’s probably true for everyone,” Yaku says, thinking that—if Lev has a quieter side he never knew about—everyone probably has a side he hasn’t seen. It’s distressing; can’t people just be like what they seem?

“Okay, Plato. Don’t tell me if you don’t want to. Wait—is this about Lev again?”

Yaku glances up. “A little,” he says. “I guess.”

He pretends not to notice the considering way Kuroo looks at him after.

 

* * *

  

Weeks pass, and every day Yaku is more used to the little flashes of Lev being different than he first imagined him. He stops skimping on receiving drills, starts being on time for practice, doesn’t pester Kenma for tosses as much. He’s still unapologetically himself—but just with a few flashes of consideration here and there.

Yaku could even go so far as to say that he _likes_ Lev—without caveats. The urge to kick him is greatly reduced from the long-ago days of summer camp, even if Lev still tries his patience on occasion.

That might be why Yaku finds himself agreeing to visit his house again when Lev says Ayako wants to see him. It’s a Saturday that dawned crisp and cold, and this time Yaku doesn’t arrive sodden at the Haiba-family doorstep after practice. Lev’s sister greets him a lot more warmly than she did the first time, hugging him for no apparent reason and dragging him into the apartment. When Yaku asks where Lev’s parents are, he’s informed that they’re out.

Yaku looks at Ayako in surprise. “They leave you alone in the house?”

She shrugs. “My brother comes home in the afternoon, and they only left a couple hours ago, so it’s fine.”

There’s unease in Yaku’s stomach, and he looks up at Lev. Lev certainly _looks_ big, but he’s only fifteen or sixteen, and he doesn’t exactly have a caretaker’s personality. Lev cocks his head in question, but Yaku doesn’t tell him what he’s thinking; instead he asks, “When do your parents get home?”

“Depends on the day,” Lev says. “They’ll be out until late tonight.”

“After dinner?” Yaku asks. Is it possible that Lev might be able to feed himself and a sister?

“Yeah!” Ayako says. She says it like it’s a good thing, all smiles and bright eyes. “So we’re making pizza.”

Yaku takes that to mean they’re warming frozen pizza in the oven and stops panicking on Ayako’s behalf. Lev’s sister is fine; it sounds like she’s been in Lev’s care before, even if that’s hard to imagine. They settle in to play games—Yaku thinks guiltily of the homework in his backpack, still uncompleted—and when dinnertime approaches Lev surprises him again by beginning to prepare actual pizza, dough and everything.

Even Yaku never goes that far, and he cooks for himself all the time.

“Look, look,” Lev says, when he has a wad of dough ready. He spins it, throwing it up and catching it again. Ayako squeals in delight, and Lev laughs. “Can you do this, Yaku-san?”

“No normal teenage boy can do that,” Yaku says, watching. Laughter bursts from his throat when a particularly high throw nearly lands the dough on the ceiling, but Lev still catches the wad on the backs of his hands neatly, looking pleased with himself. He sets it on the kitchen island.

“Are you impressed?” he asks, grinning at Yaku. “You’re impressed, aren’t you? I can tell!”

“I’m impressed,” Yaku says, folding his arms. “Now are we actually going to prepare it or are you just going to throw it around?”

“We’re making two, because you’re here!” Lev says. He lays the floppy dough on the counter and picks up an as-yet-unflattened piece of dough, holding it out like a treat. “You can try with this one.”

“It’s not going to work,” Yaku says, looking at the dough as if it’ll jump on him. “I’ll just drop it.”

“Isn’t it your job to catch things?” Lev says, grinning, and Yaku finds himself stepping forward, joining Lev in the kitchen. His honor as a libero has been challenged; he has to defend himself.

“Fine,” he says, glaring a little for good measure. “But if I drop it, you eat this one.”

The grin on Lev’s face widens. “Okay.”

Ayako claps, and Lev begins the business of teaching, attempting to wrestle Yaku’s hands into the right position after dousing them with flour. He’s bad at teaching, relying on instinct alone, but Yaku is a good student; he can sort of get what he means.

The first toss ends with dough draped over Yaku’s arm like a waiter’s cloth napkin; the second only just misses his face, and the dough settles over the fists Yaku had flung up to protect his head. The dough stretches, but not evenly, and Lev has him try again and again. Eventually, Yaku can manage a passable throw, and he can’t quite keep himself from laughing with delight when it goes right the first time. When he looks at Lev, Lev isn’t laughing—he’s smiling, but not laughing, and there’s a strange look on his face.

“You have to eat this one,” Yaku tells him, not sure why his stomach suddenly feels as stretchy and amorphous as pizza dough. “It probably tastes like my arm hair.”

“Ew!” Ayako calls, running over to the counter to lay claim to the other dough. “I’m having this one. _Only_ this one.”

Yaku laughs, wondering if he should say he wasn’t serious. He doesn’t see the point, though, and the three of them start to spread out tomato sauce and prepare toppings. Before long they have two ready-to-heat pizzas, and Yaku realizes that—somehow—he’s had fun doing this.

He’s had a lot of fun.

He watches Ayako and Lev shoving each other in front of the oven and feels something tugging at him painfully. How long has it been since he hung out with anyone outside of volleyball—friends _or_ family? His sisters both live away from home now, and his parents are gone all the time. His house is always quiet—clean, but quiet. How long has it been since he had fun outside of volleyball? How long has it been since he’s felt warmth like this? Suddenly, his extreme self-sufficiency doesn’t feel like such a boon anymore; he wants to rely on someone—he wants to lean on them and feel them lean back.

“Yaku-san?”

Lev has noticed him staring. Yaku swallows, trying to shake the introspective mood that caught hold of him. His smile when he manages it feels forced.

“Shouldn’t we finish our game?” he asks, gesturing at the living room table. As one, the Haiba siblings run to get back to it, and Yaku tries to keep his thoughts from turning dark—which gets hard when he notices Lev is letting his sister win. That tugging feeling continues stronger than ever, and he has to ignore it the rest of the evening—as they eat pizza and watch a movie, and then again when Lev wrestles his sister into bed. Ayako’s bedtime ritual includes telling her stories about a boy named Chev who takes the volleyball world by storm, and Yaku stands in the doorway wondering if he wants to laugh or cry; cry, because the warmth of the Haiba household has hit him like a punch in the gut—or laugh, because crying at the tales of Chev blocking the great ace Mokuto-san during nationals would be the most ridiculous thing in the world.

The living room feels deserted when he and Lev return to it with just the two of them. A sense of melancholy shoots through Yaku—but Lev doesn’t intend to let him leave just yet, apparently, plying him with snacks and juice and making him watch volleyball videos on the large TV.

“Yaku-san,” he says after a tall player has blocked a short person’s spike. “Do you think I deserve to be a starter?”

Yaku blinks at him in surprise; Lev only lifts his brows and waits.

“Where has all your confidence gone?” Yaku asks. “If the coach puts you in, you’re meant to be in.”

“I just wanted to know what you thought,” Lev says, shoulders hunching a little. It makes Yaku feel flustered.

“You care what I think?”

“Yes.”

The flustered feeling deepens; it makes Yaku short of breath. “You deserve to be in,” he says quickly, and Lev smiles. It’s a cuter smile than the full-on grin Yaku is used to, and Yaku looks back at the TV in slight consternation. Is it strange for him to think of Lev as cute?

Lev sits up a moment later, sending a bag of chips flying.

“Are you busy next Friday?” he asks, eyes wide.

Yaku looks back at him. “No?”

“My sister has a dance thing,” Lev says. “Would you come? To watch?”

“She wants me to come?”

Lev hesitates. “Yes?”

“Lev…”

“What?”

Yaku frowns. He’s not sure how to phrase this question, but he needs to ask; it’s killing him not to know. “Why do you keep inviting me to stuff?”

Lev inclines his head. “Yaku-san, are you self-conscious? Are you asking why people like you?”

“No!” Yaku says. “Of course not.”

“It sounds like that’s what you’re asking,” Lev says, still holding his head at an angle.

“Well, I’m not,” Yaku says, flustered worse than before. He doesn’t like the doubt in Lev’s answering expression; his assertion is true, after all: he’s not asking why people like him—but a small part of him wants to give in and ask what Lev is accusing him of asking. He imagines it—imagines himself saying _why do you like me?_ —but it would seem like he was fishing for compliments, and he can’t stand the thought of that. He doesn’t need reassurance; he just wants to know why _Lev_ would want his company, not people in general. He’s not insecure, just… confused. He’s okay with Lev driving out the loneliness he didn’t realize he was feeling—but he wishes he knew what Lev got out of the bargain. Yaku was doing him favors long before this tentative friendship started up.

“I should go,” he says suddenly, and as soon as he says it it’s true. He needs to get out of here and clear his head. He needs to remember that he’s fine the way he is, not lonely, just a little… alone.

“But you’ll come on Friday?”

“Yes, yes, if Ayako wants me to. Should I bring anything?”

Lev shakes his head. “Just yourself,” he says, and again that strangely sweet smile makes an appearance.

Yaku tries not to feel like he’s escaping as he makes his exit.

 

* * *

 

 

In hindsight, it would have been good to ask what the dress code is at a _dance thing_. Yaku tries not to beat himself up for not asking, though; that was a weird night. He was stressed, he reasons, and that’s explanation enough for why he got so emotional over pizza and games. In any case, he figures simply showering and changing after practice is a good amount of effort on his part.

He still has to rush to their meeting place downtown.

He’s breathing hard by the time he approaches the corner where they’re meeting, almost late. Shoppers are still milling around, and the street is day-bright with lights and shop displays. When he spots Lev standing still at the corner of a sports shop, obviously waiting for someone, he slows. 

_It’s Lev_ , Yaku thinks, and of course it’s Lev—he doesn’t need to remind himself of that—but somehow his mind reels with the information. The Lev waiting for him doesn’t look like Lev; he looks like a model, with his hands stuck in the pockets of a navy blue jacket, his scarf artfully arranged over his collar, jeans that fit like none of Yaku’s do, head turned over one shoulder so Yaku only see him in profile. It’s Lev, but it’s not—because Yaku isn’t used to being this nervous at the sight of Lev. He’s not the only one looking, either; he hears giggles from a group of girls Lev seems to be stalwartly ignoring.

Yaku feels heavy. The strange maybe-I’m-lonely feeling comes back, and he wants to rush over—wants to make himself known and let Lev’s enthusiasm catch him and wrap around him. This stranger-Lev is just that: a stranger. A fashionable person he has no claim to.

It gives him an empty feeling just under his ribcage.

He must make some sound, or perhaps his stillness looks weird in Lev’s peripheral vision, because suddenly Lev’s head whips round, and his face breaks into a smile. The empty feeling dissipates; this is no stranger.

“Yaku-san!”

Lev looks ready to run over, but Yaku motions for him to stay over there. He closes the distance between them—and when he musters the courage to properly look up at Lev’s face he notices something. More specifically, three somethings: Lev’s hair is clipped back by three sparkly, beribboned hairclips, obviously originating from Ayako. The ridiculousness of it should steady Yaku—remove that strange vision of model-Lev from his retina—but instead Yaku feels even further adrift. His body is warm and achy, his mind spinning very swiftly around a fact he’s been circling for a while.

_I like him. I like him. I really like him._

He swallows hard.

Lev stays still as Yaku reaches up for the clips, struggling not to freeze when he first touches Lev’s hair; it’s whisper-soft against his fingers. He soldiers on, removing the clips one at a time, wishing he could properly run his fingers through it.

He wishes he wasn’t wishing that, and then he notices how close they’re standing, how he’s stretched up to reach Lev’s head, and his heart beats into overdrive.

He drops the clips into Lev’s hand. He tries not to touch him—he really does—but Lev’s palm brushes against his nonetheless, and cold fingers bump his warm ones. A shiver rolls down Yaku’s spine, pleasant for all that it’s unwelcome.

He can’t quite make himself look Lev in the eye.

“Oh,” Lev exclaims. Yaku huffs a laugh, still avoiding eye contact.

“Shall we go?” he asks.

“Yeah!” Lev says, recovering. “My parents are saving us seats. They’re probably in the very front.”

Lev walks fast as he starts to lead the way, slightly ahead of Yaku, and Yaku wonders whether he could take a side street unnoticed and scream into a dumpster or something. He needs to scream, to let out the shock and horror he feels at the realization that he’s in love—in love with Lev, who is loud and energetic and a first year and a _guy_. How did this even start? How _could_ it start? Why did he let it get this far?

“Yaku-san, keep up!”

Lev reaches for him, grabbing his hand and making him jog along to keep up. Yaku is too breathless to shake off the hand or berate him, and it’s all he can do to put one foot in front of the other until Lev pulls him into a theater building, past a nearly-abandoned lobby and into a moderately full auditorium.

Lev’s parents are seated by the stage; Lev was right about that. Lev pulls him to his seat, and that’s when Yaku finally manages to shake off Lev’s hand, which has grown fiery as they walked—or perhaps it’s Yaku’s own hand that’s burning. Lev’s mother leans across Lev to speak to him.

“We’re so glad you could make it,” she tells Yaku. “Aya-chan’s been so excited since she heard you were coming.”

Yaku doesn’t know what it is with Lev’s family and their insistence on being overly friendly, but he smiles awkwardly and mumbles something he hopes is polite. Mostly he feels a huge need to apologize for falling for her son.

_Calm down_ , he tells himself, leaning back in his chair. Lev is taking off his coat next to him, revealing a riotously bright shirt. _No one has to know_.

He swallows. That’s the important part, isn’t it? No one has to know what he’s just realized. There’s nothing wrong with being fond of someone; he won’t be arrested for becoming attached to his underclassman. He just needs to act normally.

With cautious breaths he sinks back into his chair, looking up at the stage as he calms himself. He’s here with Lev to do a totally platonic thing. Lev’s family is here. Everything is fine, and this is not a date, even if Lev waited for him on the street and grabbed his hand and let him mess with his hair. It’s not a date, and everything is normal.

His panic has almost abated by the time an announcer walks on stage, talking about the performance to come. Several different dance groups are involved, it’s a great collaborative effort, thank you for coming… Yaku wipes his hands on his trousers and remembers what he’s really here for.

It’s normal, normal, normal.

The music, when it starts, helps. So does the dancing. For a while Yaku is lost in the blissfully neutral activity of seeking out a familiar face among the dancers, and he tries to forget Lev next to him even though he’s fairly sure the masculine, clean scent he finds himself leaning into is coming from Lev. He ignores it, pressing back into his chair until Lev bumps his ankle, making him jump.

“She’s there!” Lev whispers.

Yaku presses a hand over his rapidly-beating heart, feeling betrayed. He can’t react to Lev like this; it’ll send him to an early grave. He looks where Lev is pointing and spots Ayako dressed in bright pink and red and orange. He throws a smile at Lev to say _I saw, thanks_ , but Lev isn’t looking; he’s grinning up at his little sister like there’s no one else in the world, and Yaku has to clamp down on the warmth in his chest, has to shake himself yet again.

He survives the performance somehow, and an hour later finds him in the lobby with Lev’s family as both Lev and his mother shower Ayako with praise. It’s nice to see—really nice.

But it also makes him feel like he has a gaping hole in his chest.

He’s glad when Lev’s parents mention heading home—except when they start to move out of the lobby, they wave and leave Lev behind.

Yaku looks at Lev tightly. “Shouldn’t you be going too?”

“It’s too early to go home!” Lev says. “Where do you want to go?”

_Home_ , Yaku thinks. He wants to scream into his pillow for a while. The thought of spending the rest of the evening pretending everything is normal is torturous—but Lev’s parents are already out of sight.

“I don’t know,” Yaku says honestly.

“Ice cream?”

“It’s almost winter.”

“Are you cold?”

Yaku’s shoulders rise. No, he’s not. In fact, he’s too warm, owing to the fact that he’s been lowkey panicking for the past hour and a bit. He gestures.

“Lead the way, then.”

Lev grins, and he looks like he might want to grab Yaku’s hand to pull him along again, but Yaku puts his hands in his pockets quickly. He has the strange impression that he’ll burn if Lev touches him, and he feels safer like this, even if Lev holding the door open for him makes him feel silly.

“There!” Lev announces once they’re out in the street, pointing at a frozen yogurt shop with a cat mascot down the road.

“Of course you’d choose that one,” Yaku says.

“Don’t you like cats?”

“I like them fine, but you like them more.”

“You’re like a cat,” Lev announces. “One of those ones that pretends to hate people.”

“What?!”

Lev grins at him and pulls him into the shop, his large hands curling around Yaku’s bicep. Yaku flinches, but Lev is too excited to notice. He lets go and starts running from section to section, trying out flavors, and though he gets a head start Yaku is the one at the checkout first.

“I should pay!” Lev says when he sees. He races over, holding a terrifying concoction of multicolored frozen yogurt and candy and fruit. Yaku is about to complain when Lev shoves him aside, and he stands there gaping as Lev pays.

Paying for each other is not normal. He knows for sure; it’s a matter of honor among classmates to complain at length about having to spring for someone who forgot a wallet. Is this because of those audio tapes? He hasn’t recorded any in a while.

Lev hands him his cup. “You should have gotten more,” he says, then reconsiders. “Hm, no, this suits you, Yaku-san!”

“Frozen yogurt suits me?”

They sit down at a table near a mixed group that looks about high school aged too. Yaku can’t believe other people besides him are stupid enough to snack on frozen goods this time of year.

“Your samurai spirit,” Lev says, as if what he’s saying makes sense. “Green tea ice and some fruit. Austere, like a samurai.”

Yaku chokes. “You think I’m like a samurai?”

Lev nods and digs into his treat. Yaku wants to ask more—but there’s no way he’ll ever manage to ask _why do you think I’m like a samurai_ out loud. He digs in too, and is only pulled from his decidedly un-samurai-like thoughts when someone at the next table speaks up.

“Hey! Do you play basketball?” the stranger asks Lev. “How tall are you?”

Yaku tunes out Lev’s answer for the most part, but he catches “and Yaku-san does too.” He looks up.

“You play volleyball?” a different stranger asks Yaku, looking incredulous.

“He’s one of the best in our generation,” Lev says immediately, expression and tone deadly serious. Yaku wants to reach across the table and cover Lev’s mouth with his hands. “He can receive anything, and even Karasuno’s Guardian Deity acknowledges him as an equal—or even a superior.”

“He’s exaggerating,” Yaku says quickly, kicking Lev under the table. Lev turns to look at him, a questioning look in his eyes.

“No I’m not, Yaku-san,” he says, still in that strange, serious way. Yaku’s stomach flips over, and he reminds himself that he only has to make it through tonight—just tonight. Then he can start distancing himself from Lev and things can go back to normal.

He tries not to think of how empty the thought of normal feels just now. 

 

* * *

 

  

His plans to distance himself from Lev have only barely formed when they’re smashed to pieces once more at Saturday practice the next day. Thinking _I’ll distance myself from Lev_ is all well and good, but it fails to take one major factor into account: Lev. And, to a lesser extent, Kuroo.

“You’re okay with staying after practice, aren’t you?” Kuroo asks, with a sharp look that says _you’re okay with staying after practice_. Yaku sighs; he’s okay with staying after practice, but he wishes it wasn’t to go over receives with Lev more.

“He could really use your help,” Kuroo adds.

“He’s had my help plenty of times before,” Yaku says, his voice thick. “I don’t know what else I can do to teach him.”

Kuroo frowns. They’re in the equipment room and there’s no one to overhear, but he glances around to check for eavesdroppers anyway. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Yaku?”

Yaku rubs his forehead. “Don’t ask? Please?”

“Yaku…”

This time, there’s pity in Kuroo’s voice—or sympathy, or something like that. He claps Yaku on the shoulder.

“You’re in the burgeoning field of your youth,” Kuroo says wisely. “Enjoy it.”

“The way you do?” Yaku snaps back. He expects it to be the wrong thing again—for Kuroo’s eyes to shutter and turn accusatory—but instead Kuroo grins.

“Hey,” he says. “My burgeoning field may be all buds, but don’t think for a second that I’m not enjoying it.”

Yaku looks up at him open-mouthed. He’d imagined Kuroo more… tortured, somehow. He doesn’t look sad at all, and seeing Yaku’s confusion he even seems rather pleased with himself.

“So,” Kuroo says. “You’re okay with staying after, right?”

“Yes,” Yaku grumbles. “Just tell me to do it if you’re going to hound me anyway.”

Kuroo grins and waves, exiting the equipment room. Yaku follows shortly after, finding the gym almost deserted. Kuroo has left already, and Lev jumps up when he sees Yaku enter.

“I’m ready, Yaku-san!”

_I’m not_ , Yaku thinks, but he gives Lev a tempered smile and runs through possible lessons in his head. Two-people drills, some form analysis, maybe a discussion of where Lev needs to be during matches depending on where the others are…

They start with drills, Lev running and receiving while Yaku stands mostly stationary. Yaku hits the ball at Lev, Lev receives and runs a circle around Yaku, then Yaku sets and Lev hits, and the drill starts over. It’s meant to practice good form while racing, emulating the no-time-to-think atmosphere of a match, and it certainly seems to give Lev no time to think. His form is sloppy. At least the exercise gives Yaku time to think and calm himself—time to settle back into volleyball mode, which is familiar territory for both of them. Still, he can’t let Lev practice at this subpar level forever.

“Here, you do my bit and watch,” Yaku says, throwing Lev the ball. He drops, ready for the hit, and demonstrates the drill. Lev is breathing hard, but his eyes are intent as he watches.

“You’re so fast,” Lev says, awe in his voice. Yaku’s cheeks flush.

“Your turn,” he says.

“Can you show me one more time?”

Yaku complies, scolding words on the tip of his tongue— _you should look properly the first time_ —but he withholds them through long practice. He’s running the circle around Lev, his steps lightning-quick, when his right ankle rolls and he drops.

For a moment everything is slow motion; he sees the floor rise up to meet him, knows exactly how he’s going to hit it, and then he does hit, and his breath leaves him in a whoosh. He rolls onto his back, the ankle that rolled coming up—but Lev is there before Yaku can examine it. His large hands are on Yaku, panicky.

“Yaku-san! Yaku-san! Are you okay?”

Yaku tries to slow his breathing. If he was hurt, he wouldn’t feel it right now with adrenaline still kicking around in his body—but he doesn’t _think_ he was hurt. Right now what he’s most aware of is the way Lev keeps touching him as if his hands will encounter a mortal wound at any moment.

“I’m fine,” he manages. “Just embarrassed.”

He flinches when Lev moves his right foot, though, and Lev looks at him accusingly.

“You _are_ hurt,” he says.

“Only a little,” Yaku says, and he sits up, moving the foot in a cautious circle. Lev doesn’t let go; his hands are on Yaku’s ankle, his palms sweaty. He’s looking at him still, green eyes intense, and he examines Yaku from top to bottom.

“Really,” Yaku says, uncomfortable under his stare. “I’m fine. You can let go.”

The words sound stilted, and they echo in his head: _you can let go_. He doesn’t want Lev to let go. Lev’s large hands on him—Lev’s voice pitched in concern—Lev’s undivided attention pinning him to the spot—all of these things are wanted, desired, desireable. His breath is fast, his heart beating a rapid tattoo in his chest.

Lev hasn’t let go.

Their eyes meet—Yaku’s wide in surprise, Lev’s steady and strange. Lev’s hands slide up to Yaku’s kneepad and a question forms in his face. Yaku says nothing, still breathing hard.

This isn’t normal.

It isn’t normal, but Yaku can’t speak to put a stop to it. A hush has fallen over them both, and every inch of Yaku’s body is aware of where Lev’s hands lay like brands against his leg. Lev moves one of those hands, touches Yaku’s left thigh and asks that non-question again with his eyes. Apparently he reads an answer in Yaku’s continued, silent staring, because his hands slide up to the bottoms of Yaku’s shorts, and Yaku can barely breathe. He ducks his head, his face very close to Lev’s. He can smell Lev’s sweat, feel his breath against his skin. They’re close now—really close. The places where they touch blaze with heat, and his heart in his chest feels fit to burst.

He should say something. Lev’s name, maybe, to draw him back into the present and break the strange hush, but he doesn’t. Instead he lets one of the hands propping him up settle on Lev’s knee, waiting for him to recoil. He doesn’t—but his hands move up to grasp Yaku’s hips, and his forehead bumps against Yaku’s. If Yaku leans in they’ll kiss, but somehow it feels like kissing will break the moment. So far, nothing has happened; they’re just holding onto each other. Yaku draws his legs up, twists his torso, lets his hands clutch at Lev’s shirt.

_He’s so young_ , Yaku thinks, guilt forming a knot in his stomach, but even that guilt can’t chase out the shivery, light feeling in his limbs, because the rest of him is thinking _he’s so bright_. He wants to wrap around Lev. He wants the hands on his hips to pull him in tight. He wants, he wants, he wants…

When Lev leans in to kiss him, it comes as a surprise. It shouldn’t, because Lev has been forward this whole time, but somehow a part of Yaku was explaining away those actions—as if there is such a thing as random platonic hip-grabbing, random platonic silences, random platonic looks that say _can I do this?_ as a hand slides up.

Lev’s lips are closed against his, awkward but insistent, and it occurs to him that Lev doesn’t know how to kiss—not that Yaku’s had much practice. Yaku breathes slowly out, lets his breath be the precursor to his kiss, lets his mouth brush against Lev’s until it opens and Yaku can taste him on his tongue. Lev doesn’t taste like anything at all, but Yaku imagines an unlikely combination of sunlight and pizza dough and rain drumming against windows. Yaku’s hand comes up to cup the back of Lev’s head, deepening the kiss, needing more contact—to be closer—and Lev begins to respond in earnest, hands moving up Yaku’s sides and then drawing him in so their bodies move together.

It’s just enough to break the fog in Yaku’s mind. “Lev—”

Lev freezes immediately, though only his head draws back. “Do you want to stop?”

The question is jarring. Does Yaku _want_ to stop? No. Not at all. He shakes his head, almost confused by the question, and Lev is on him again, long arms wrapping around him, pulling him into his lap as he kneels. He places kisses along the side of Yaku’s face, then his neck, then his collarbone, and Yaku fights not to whimper. Lev mumbles his name between kisses, adoration in every syllable.

_How is this happening?_ Yaku thinks, his thoughts hazy with a mix of arousal and confusion. He sets his hands on either side of Lev’s face, stopping the onslaught. Lev’s hair is soft against his fingers, and there’s an endearing flush across his cheeks. Yaku moves in to kiss him slow and soft, shivering at the easy way Lev opens his mouth under his now, the eager press of Lev’s tongue, arms tightening.

How is it possible that Lev likes him back?

“Lev,” he says again, but this time it doesn’t mean stop; it just means _I have a question_ , and Lev doesn’t freeze nearly as hard.

“Mm?”

“Why…?” Yaku manages. He isn’t sure what he’s asking.

“I like you,” Lev says. A floodgate opens inside of Yaku; relief pours through him. What had he thought? That Lev wanted kissing practice? It doesn’t matter.

“Why?” he asks again, with a different meaning this time. He’s sitting in a sixteen year-old’s lap on the gym floor; if he had too much pride to ask _why do you like me_ before, he’s lost that pride now.

Lev pulls back just enough to look at him, hair mussed. A self-satisfied little smile plays about his mouth. “Are you asking me why I like you, Yaku-san?”

“Yeah,” Yaku says, quashing his natural aversion to asking for praise. “Sure. Please tell me.”

“Your voice is nice,” Lev says immediately. “And you’re really smart, and you’re nice, and you’re the best libero of our generation, and I always want to be close to you because you smell so good. Also you’re—” he stops himself, looks at Yaku suspiciously.

“What?” Yaku asks. He’s fairly sure his face is on fire.

“Really small,” Lev says, braced for impact. “I like that.”

Yaku doesn’t hit him—but he does hide his face in his hands and groan. Lev likes him because he’s travel-sized? He’s not sure he’s ever heard such a bad reason to like someone in his life.

Lev leans around him, moves to brush kisses against Yaku’s ear and neck while he hides, and it’s like being surrounded on all sides. Yaku shivers at the sensation of Lev touching and kissing him, still hiding behind his hands; he’s afraid to remove them now because he’s not sure what his expression is doing.

“That’s absurd,” Yaku breathes, his body wound tight.

“Is it?” Lev asks.

“You can’t like people just because they’re small.”

“But I don’t,” Lev says. “I just like that _you’re_ small.”

“ _Why?_ ” Is this a kinky thing? God, he hopes not. Lev is too innocent for that, surely—he has to be.

Lev shrugs. “It’s part of you. And the… sleeves…”

“Sleeves?”

“When you wore my shirt,” Lev says. “The collar was so wide, and you rolled up the sleeves. I wanted to pick you up and carry you around.”

“I would have kicked you into next week.”

Lev nods.

Unexpectedly, laughter bubbles up in Yaku’s stomach. He lets his head drop against Lev’s shoulder, and the laughter escapes—he sits shaking on top of Lev, trying not to make too much noise in case it attracts some school administrator to the empty gym.

“I can’t believe this,” he mumbles. “Why do I like you so much?”

He looks up, and Lev grins. “You like me too, Yaku-san?”

“Obviously.”

Lev grabs his face. “Will you be mine?”

“Yours?” Yaku inquires, brows arching.

“Yes. You can read to me, and we can have more of these practices, and I’ll carry your bag for you, and you can visit my house and I’ll visit yours.”

Yaku wants to laugh. Lev is outlining a relationship they already have—minus the bag-carrying—but the strangest thing is how good it sounds. “You want that?”

Lev nods.

And Yaku wants it too. He knows he should be worried about the age difference—the _personality_ difference—but it’s hard to think past the joy of Lev liking him. There is one other hitch, though, and even if he can look past it for himself he can’t dismiss it on Lev’s behalf.

“Even though we’re both guys?” he asks, voice small.

Lev nods again. “Kenma said it wasn’t that unusual.”

“You talked to Kenma about it?”

Lev grins. “Yes. When I realized I liked you I asked him what I should do, and he said we should keep spending time together, and he was right.”

Yaku wonders whether it would be wrong to kill Kenma for that. How could he anticipate something Yaku had never even considered?

“Yaku…” Lev nuzzles into his neck, large hands sneaking under his shirt to span his torso. Yaku twitches against sudden arousal. This is too bold—hands sneaking under clothes _has_ to be too bold—but he can’t ask Lev to stop because he doesn’t want him to.

He can, however, scold him. “You’re dropping the suffix?”

“Hm… Yaku-dono, then.”

Yaku snorts, and he wonders how someone can be so silly and so attractive at the same time. His body aches with want—he wants to press into Lev and resume their kissing and lose himself in the sensation—but he’s worried that if he gives into that desire they’ll end up doing something truly indecent on the gym floor.

He needs to be patient, especially if he’s dating someone so excitable.

Is he dating someone so excitable?

As if he hears Yaku’s thoughts, Lev pulls back to look at him. “I mean it, about being together,” he says. “Please, Yaku-san?”

_Who says please with a question like that?_ Yaku thinks, but his body warms. He couldn’t say no even if he wanted to—but he doesn’t want to, not even a little bit. He wants to let Lev in close. He wants to lean on Lev and feel Lev lean back, even if the thought of relying on someone scares him.

He’s in the blooming field of his youth, Kuroo said. That must include risks, right?

“Yes,” Yaku says. “Of course.” He looks away from Lev’s bright, blissful look. “Someone needs to keep an eye on you.”

Lev’s grin is blinding even in his peripheral vision. “And you,” Lev says. “You’re too serious when you’re left to your own devices, Yaku-san.”

From anyone else, the comment would hurt; Yaku has always been accused of being too serious, too concerned about appearances, too like a mother hen—but Lev likes him as he is. Unbidden, the image of Lev telling the story of the volleyball player Chev to his sister rises up in his mind, and laughter bubbles in his stomach.

“Maybe you can work me into your story,” Yaku says. “The one about Chev.”

“The great love of Chev’s life,” Lev says, nodding, and abruptly the laughter stops. “Haku-san. He’s already in it. Ayako likes him.”

Heat moves up Yaku’s neck into his face until even his ears are burning. _The great love of Chev’s life? Ayako likes him?_ “She knows?” he chokes, remembering Ayako’s hugs and the bright way she looks at him. Surely if she knew she wouldn’t approve of him so completely?

“Yes,” Lev says, grinning. “She likes him just as much as Captain Buroo, who can turn into a cat. She wants you to come over again on Saturday.”

Yaku’s insides turn watery. He imagines another night like that—the day spent with Ayako and then the silence of the living room after with just the two of them. Suddenly, it’s not a lonely thought but a scary, exciting one. Would he and Lev sit next to each other during the movie, curled up on the couch? Would Lev sneak kisses? How does this dating thing work?

And is it wrong to be so excited about it?

“I can come over,” he says, trying to sound casual. His stomach is fluttering. _You’re a third year_ , he reminds himself. _Act like it_.

Lev grins, and suddenly their comfortable position on the floor shifts; Lev is standing, keeping hold of Yaku so he doesn’t fall. He places Yaku on his feet gently and leans down for a kiss that lands on the side of Yaku’s mouth.

“Please take care of me from now on, Yaku-san,” he says, and the cute smile makes its reappearance—the one that makes Yaku’s stomach squirm.

“Of course,” Yaku mumbles, and when Lev reaches for his hand he lets him. He tests his ankle, the one he rolled—and finds that it barely hurts at all. He pulls Lev along towards the exit; extra practice is over.

Something different—something totally unlike the calm familiarity of practice—has begun.

**Author's Note:**

> A text conversation that probably happened not long after this:
> 
> From: Yaku Morisuke  
> To: Kuroo Tetsurou  
> I think the burgeoning field of my youth is in bloom
> 
> From: Kuroo Tetsurou  
> To: Yaku Morisuke  
> Does this mean you’ll stay after practice more often? ೕ(•̀ᴗ•́) Good luck, ‘Yaku-san’! (Kenma already told me btw (*ΦωΦ*))


End file.
